


Lapse of Judgment

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Lapse of Judgment [1]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-10-10
Updated: 1995-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gay bar meeting, sex, not getting along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapse of Judgment

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ruth and Kenna for advice, encouragement, and beta-reading. Originally published in 1995 in the printed zine "Kung Frisky: the Legend Continues."

He was only going inside for a drink, Jack McCoy told himself as he entered the bar. Sure, it was a gay bar, but he was in the Village. What other choice did he have? he thought wryly. There were probably other motives behind his decision, but he ignored them steadfastly. Only one drink, or two...

The place was smaller inside than it looked, dark, crowded. The press of male bodies in suits, the din of voices and laughter. Jack pushed his way to the bar and ordered a vodka on the rocks, his eye lingering on an immaculately dressed yuppie with his arm around a spiky-haired club kid with a bad bleach job. Styles changed. It had been a long time since he'd cruised, a long time since he'd come to places like this and sat in the dark, surveying the forbidden flesh, seldom indulging in anything more than window-shopping, for fear of discovery. Aware that hiding in the dark was part of a clandestine, self-hating society he despised, yet still getting a rush from the secrecy.

The tables were full already. Just as well, he decided, fighting the urge to slip into former habits. He moved to the corner of the bar, staking out a spot next to a couple of corporate execs too busy on their cellular phones to be flirting. Yeah, styles had changed.

He was on his second vodka, making eye contact with an impossibly tanned Greek or Latino young man in a white suit and ponytail, when out of the babel of the crowd he heard a voice he recognized. Or thought he did, listening for it again, frowning slightly even as he tried not to move his gaze from the tan adonis. Who started coming his way, pulling away from the bar, drink in hand. The crowd immediately merged to fill in the gap, and Jack froze as he saw what had been an arm in a dark teal sleeve become the profile of a man he knew. He turned away quickly, before he could be spotted, and came face-to-face with Mr. White Suit, who introduced himself as Carlos, and reeked of Polo cologne.

Carlos was chatty, speaking fast and loud in a lilting New York Hispanic accent. Jack was cornered, considered making an ungraceful escape, then caught sight of the man he knew across the bar; realized he could observe without being observed, and decided to stay. He sank back against the wall, let Carlos move closer, becoming his buffer, and watched. Let Carlos buy him another drink.

When the crowd began to thin, and Carlos, disappointed by lukewarm responses, gave up, McCoy, emboldened by drink and faintly amused by the bizarre situation he was facing, made his decision. He moved along the bar until he stood behind the dark teal shirt and said, "Mike? Buy you a drink?" Mike Logan turned around, and for the look of guilty shock on his face alone Jack was glad he'd stayed. A look that quickly faded, however, replaced by ill-concealed hostility.

"What are you doing here?" Logan asked.

Jack wondered the same thing himself. He said, "I came in for a drink."

Logan's eyes flitted to the far wall and back. "Yeah. Me too."

McCoy watched his discomfort, began feeling it himself. He leaned against the bar. "Right."

Mike looked at him, smiled disarmingly and asked, "You believing any of this?"

Jack grinned and shook his head. "No."

Logan's eyes stayed on him, he seemed about to say something. There was an open, familiar expression in his eyes but Jack couldn't place it. It was faintly disconcerting. Jack's gaze fell to his empty glass. When he raised his eyes, Logan looked away, turned back to the bar and ordered another scotch.

"What're you drinking?"

"Vodka."

"That figures."

Fresh glass of vodka in his hand, McCoy couldn't help but review everything he knew about Detective Mike Logan, reflecting that Mike was probably doing exactly the same thing about him.

"Kind of a shock to see you here," he said.

Mike swallowed a drink of scotch. "I bet." It seemed the ice that had broken earlier was freezing up again. McCoy spoke his mind.

"You have the reputation for being aggressively heterosexual."

Logan smirked, but there was a coldness in his eyes. "That's only half the story." McCoy gave a half-laugh. "That figures," he said, eyes twinkling at the joke.

Logan flashed him a sharp look, then relaxed slightly. "You have a reputation yourself, counselor." His eyes travelled the length of McCoy's body, seemingly curious.

Jack turned from him, focusing on the row of bottles across the bar, and gave a short nod. "Yes," he agreed slowly.

Mike seemed to enjoy his hesitancy. He edged closer, his elbow brushing against Jack's arm.

"Only half the story?" he offered.

McCoy shrugged. "More like two-thirds," he said, and felt self-conscious at the admission. He raised his hand to order another drink. They fell into an uncomfortable silence then, around them the bar humming and shifting. Logan ordered another scotch, was nursing it; Jack had lost track of how many that was.

"This does explain one thing, though," McCoy remarked.

"What's that?"

"Why you hit Crossley."

Logan's eyes lit up with fury and he tensed as if he might lash out at McCoy, but he visibly reined in his temper. He stared into his glass. "I've had a rough couple of months. No thanks to you," he added.

Words of self-defense leapt to Jack's mouth but he held back. He didn't want to talk about that, was genuinely sorry he'd brought the topic up.

"I shouldn't have said that," he admitted quietly. Mike looked at him, suspicious, gradually softened when he saw the sentiment was sincere.

"You'd think we'd have some common ground," he observed, "but we don't know the first thing about each other. Maybe it's better that way. I don't know," he said, shrugging and taking a drink.

The vodka inspired Jack's response. "I like to win," he stated.

He held Logan's gaze with his own, staring at him, into him, watching the reaction of surprise replaced by confidence, interest. Realized too late he'd just pushed their not-so-small talk onto another plane. A new playing field, one he only pretended to be familiar with.

"You do?" Mike asked coolly.

"At any cost."

Logan paused. "That's very interesting," he said at last. "Especially given your track record." A note of bitterness in his voice. McCoy leaned closer.

"Winning is a matter of control, detective. When you control the game, you win."

Mike raised his eyebrows, feigning a naive fascination. "Really?" He seemed to consider this, a smile forming on his full, moist lips. "What if the other team won't let you control the game? What if both teams are evenly matched? Who wins then?"

McCoy, beginning to enjoy their debate, gave a short laugh. "You think we're evenly matched?"

Logan grinned. "No," he said, the glint in his eyes revealing exactly who he thought superior.

McCoy was both intrigued and repulsed by his attitude. He was overwhelmed by a desire to knock Logan down a peg or two. But he began to wonder if he'd chosen the wrong venue. This was not his turf, this was an environment he only pretended to understand. His own confusion and self-denial kept it obscured from him. And he was already at a disadvantage. Without fully realizing it, he'd shown Logan his interest. Logan could humiliate him utterly by not responding. It was a roll of the dice.

McCoy gambled, hoped it wouldn't be snake-eyes. "You're sure about that?" he asked.

Mike gave a little shrug. "Prove me wrong."

\-----

As Jack unlocked the front door to his Gramercy brownstone, he began to regret his decision. Mike was master at this game, alternately tantalizing him with looks of blatant desire, then turning cold and distant. His detective's training. Jack should have anticipated his interrogation techniques. He should have summoned some techniques of his own, but he had the disturbing feeling Logan would see right through them. Why was he letting Logan get under his skin so?

McCoy carried on, acutely aware that he was bluffing. At least he hoped so. Much as the idea of Mike Logan naked in his bed inspired him, he didn't really feel the need to dominate him anymore. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted, and he was certain he'd picked the wrong man to play games with. But he couldn't let go. That was his weakness: he liked to win.

He opened the door to his half of the duplex and showed Mike in, taking some comfort from his surroundings, his home, his domain. Logan stayed in the hallway, leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Nice place," he said.

McCoy paused. "I like it," he replied, heading for the living room, not looking back.

He gazed at the darkened patio outside, his back to the hallway, immediately aware when Mike entered the room. It struck him that neither of them would give up. They had more in common than they realized.

Mike crossed the room and stood behind him, McCoy watched his reflection in the window. Logan caught him watching and smiled slyly.

"You can leave now," McCoy dismissed, trying to sound authoritative. He was weary, losing his edge, taking risks.

Logan's smile widened. "You think I'm going to let you win, counselor?" He leaned closer. "You know I won't do that. You brought me here. You can't give up. You expect me to?" His breath was hot against Jack's skin, voice seductive. McCoy felt flushed, consumed by hungers he wanted to ignore. He shut his eyes, felt Logan's body brush against him.

"No, I don't," he admitted. Ready to give in, he was past caring. Logan was going to get what he wanted anyway. Continuing the charade seemed pointless.

He didn't have to open his eyes to experience Logan's grin of triumph. Somehow, he felt it. Logan grasped Jack's arm tightly, turned him around. Jack opened his eyes, was staring into Logan's intense gaze. Green eyes that seemed brown in this light, that burned both hot and cold, a look that drilled into him until he felt violated.

Then Mike said something that chilled him to the core. "You think I'll hurt you," Mike told him softly. Jack hesitated. Was that really what he thought? Maybe deep down, he did. The new possibilities opening up to him, Jack instinctively pulled away, aware that he had gone too far. Even as he feared what would happen next, his body was feeding on that fear, thriving on it. His temperature rose, he was starting to get aroused.

Composing himself, he said sternly, "No," but his voice sounded weak to his ears. He almost flinched. Logan stared at him, frowning as if puzzled.

"You're really afraid," he said, half-questioning. Jack did not reply. "Why?"

McCoy, simultaneously relieved and disappointed, moved away. It was a good question: why? Why had he stayed at the bar? Why had he spoken to Mike? Why had he gone on with the game? At last he said, sighing, "Why are any of us afraid?"

Incongruously, Logan laughed. "What a time for philosophizing, counselor." He moved up behind Jack. "But you're avoiding the real question. Why are you afraid of me?"

McCoy refused to answer that one. It wasn't violence he feared, it was something worse than that, something deeper. He couldn't explain it, even if he wanted to. Besides, Mike was baiting him.

Jack grew angry, frustrated. "This was a mistake," he said.

"Maybe. I don't think so, though," Mike replied. He reached out and ran his hand along Jack's thigh, fingertips skimming the denim surface. A skittering touch that made Jack suck in his breath. At that moment, McCoy didn't want to think about what he would do, how far he would go, for a fuck from Mike Logan.

Logan's hand travelled between his legs, encountered Jack's nascent erection; he pressed his palm against it, gracing Jack with a wry smile.

"You're so hot for it, you're about to pass out," he observed. "What's the matter? You never been satisfied?"

It was uncomfortably close to the truth. McCoy hesitated too long before denying it. Logan stepped closer, eliminating the space between them, hand entrenched between Jack's thighs, rubbing life into his cock.

"Oh yeah, counselor. Your luck's about to change."

McCoy pushed his hand away and stepped back. "I'm not interested in a sympathy fuck," he snapped, resenting how accurate Logan's guesses had been.

Logan stood there, met his gaze head on, replied simply, "Neither am I." Then he came forward, grabbed Jack and kissed him, a rough, invasive kiss sweetened by the remnants of alcohol. Somewhere beyond that kiss, beyond where they stood, Jack thought he heard a crash: the sound of his comfortable little world caving in. Shutting that world out, he lost himself in Mike's conquering embrace.

\-----

Like some external force had removed a slice of time, they were upstairs, in the bedroom, and Jack couldn't remember how they got there. Events were blurring, then suddenly with a sharp, painful clarity he saw everything, felt everything, and was one step closer to the edge.

Sensations... Heat. He was oppressively hot. Like the body heat was just rolling off Logan and consuming him. Logan, teal shirt discarded somewhere on the stairs, in a glaring white undershirt that clung to his contours, sitting in the window seat, leaning against the cool glass -- it fogged up around him -- sprawling.

Jack moved closer, across the darkened, parquet floor, careful not to cross the path of the 40-watt light that searched out Logan, painting him in hard shadows. Mike twitched one leg farther apart from the other, a minuscule movement, an invitation. Jack looked down: those black jeans impossibly tight, Mike's hand resting in his lap, palm upturned. Jack looked up, into Mike's steady, lust-tinged stare. Felt like his skin was being scalded off.

He reached the window, blocked the light, and Mike's hand snaked into his shirt, unbuttoning it, Jack motionless until the last button, the cuff, popped free, then he shrugged and let the shirt fall.

Jack knelt down in the greyness, hands running over Mike's thighs, now wanting to touch every inch of him, every particle. Leisurely, Mike untucked his undershirt; Jack admired his control, his non-chalance, his total coolness despite the heat... And Jack was foolhardy enough to hope he could break that control, to win after all.

But he himself was losing it. He was aching; it was all he could do to keep from trembling. Anxious, dizzy from the hollow pit of need deep inside him. He thought he was schooling himself well, then Mike's palm touched his face and he devoured it, tongue curling around fingers, sucking on them one-by-one, tasting the metallic tang of Logan's academy ring, biting the finger joints.

Mike withdrew his fingers, moist, glistening, slid them up his fly. Taunting. Jack flashed him a quick, impatient glare, was rewarded by Mike's eyes widening, a challenge.

Jack settled in closer, slipping his hands beneath Mike's undershirt, lifting it. He pressed his lips to Mike's belly, the skin scorching, slightly soft. His tongue lapped at it, trailing over the terrain of salty dampness and fine hairs. His fingers dug into Mike's back, luring him forward.

Stealthily, Logan's long, firm legs enclosed him, the rough denim grating against his undershirt. Beneath his neck, Jack felt Mike's hand stir, poised on his fly. Jack brushed his mouth over the hand, flicking his tongue between the fingers, briefly tasting denim, aware of what waited underneath. Not getting any immediate reaction, restless, urging, Jack molded his mouth to the hard curvature of the fly, teeth frustratedly grinding against the obstinate material. Hell, he'd fellate him through those goddamned jeans if he had to...

Finally, a response. First, an almost imperceptible tightening of Mike's legs around him. Then a husky sigh somewhere above him. A movement of fingers.

Jack shifted as the jeans were unzipped. He lifted his head, glanced up into Logan's heavy-lidded, smoldering, carnal gaze, held his breath for a moment without knowing it. Mike was slowly peeling back his jeans, shifting his underwear. Still, Jack noticed with irritation, exposing as little of himself as possible. Christ, he still had his shoes on, Jack realized.

Not caring anymore about victories, either real or imagined, McCoy freed himself from his jeans, undergarments, socks. Naked, temperature on fire, dripping with raw need, on the floor, between Mike's legs. Transfixed by the sight of Mike's cock, deep red, enticingly hard. Transfixed by the thoughts of what they could do to each other.

He leaned in, rested his lips against the head, smeared his mouth with thick, bitter ooze, let his tongue dance around it, deliberately provoking. Mike's response was to grab hold and force him closer, force him to drink in its length, and, hungrily, Jack complied, sucking, using his tongue to explore its shape, texture, weight. Relishing its taste, its deceptive smoothness. He suckled harder, heard a sharp intake of breath and slowly disengaged himself.

His heart pounded in his chest as he surveyed his handiwork -- Mike's cock, gloriously swollen, wet, sticky. Mike's fingers curled in his hair, requesting more. Jack backed out of his grasp, stood up and bent over the dishevelled, sweltering, acutely aroused Logan. "Fuck," he whispered in one ear. "Me," he whispered in the other.

He moved away, heart beating faster from the uncertainty, waiting. No reaction... until Mike kicked off one shoe, then the other, peeled off his undershirt, revealing broad shoulders and smooth, strong chest. McCoy, restraining himself, turned away, pulled out the drawer in the bedside table and searched through it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw, indistinctly, Mike strip away the rest of his clothes.

Logan moved like a predator, silently and swiftly capturing Jack from behind, hand closing in on the small plastic tube even as Jack retrieved it from the drawer. Without forcing him, Mike guided him to the floor, to his knees. Jack leaned forward against the bed, burying his arms in a snarl of sheets, resting his head against the mattress, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of Mike's body surrounding him, Mike's fingers invading him, greasing him with a cool gel. A brief, burning pause. Mike slipped one hand around Jack's cock, the other embracing Jack's thigh, and entered him. Like new-fired steel pouring into him, white-hot, sundering him, breaking him.

Jack moaned into the bedsheets, felt beads of perspiration roll down his back, moaned again as Mike's hand jerked around his cock. Mike pumping into him, ramming him, hard, fast. Staccato gasps blown against Jack's shoulder. Their drenched flesh sliding together and pulling apart with syrupy wet sounds. Incredible, delicious pain. Jack bit into the mattress, revelling in Mike's relentless battery of thrusts.

Mike's hand grasped wildly, squeezing, torturing his cock. Jack felt the blood begin to seep into every corner of his being, felt his muscles shiver, arched his back, thrown into Mike's embrace, and came. Semen shooting forth, falling haphazardly, everywhere, coating his still-throbbing cock, Mike's hand, the floor.

Still Mike beat into him, never-ending, ruthlessly intent. Jack, unresisting, rocked with him, tightened around him, swallowed him. Mike burst inside him, hot jets coursing into him, filling him, thick, viscous come seeping out as Mike withdrew, arms hugging Jack to his chest.

It seemed like forever before Jack could think and his first thought dismayed him.

"That wasn't safe sex," he said.

"Is any sex safe?" Logan murmured into his neck, voice hoarse. A moment later added, "I tested negative, for what it's worth."

Jack sighed. Dangerous, dangerous actions. He'd been playing it stupid all night, and he wished he cared. He wished he regretted it. He didn't.

He made a small movement of his leg, wincing as cooling semen streamed down his thighs, started to get up. Mike's arms tightened around his waist, held him there. Mike began kissing him, the back of his neck, his shoulders, tilting his head back to kiss his throat. Endless warm, sensuous kisses that melted Jack's skin.

Jack nestled closer to be covered in them, struck by an odd thought: now that the sex was over, the passion could begin. He was flooded with sadness then, wondering if what had brought them together wasn't mutual attraction or a mutual desire to win, but mutual pain.

He broke away, stood up, legs sore, sank down onto the bed. Mike, sitting on the floor, looked up at him, but their eyes refused to meet. After a while Mike rose. Seeing him standing, tall, exposed, marked with sex and sweat, Jack felt a disturbance, a renewed desire, and a longing to offer something more than games. He averted his eyes.

"Bathroom's down the hall," he said, gesturing at the door. He glanced at Mike, who seemed about to say something sarcastic, but instead padded out of the room, combing his hair back with his hand. Left alone, McCoy fell back across the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about all the mistakes he'd made, was making. The sound of water running, Logan helping himself to the shower. Jack stopped himself from picturing Mike under the water...

This was madness. Why had he let tonight happen? He'd never even liked Logan particularly. Attractive, yes, but also hot-headed, uncooperative and brutish. Why had he wanted him so much? And why did he still want him?

It was as if Logan were some controlled substance that got under his skin, making him want -- need -- more. Making him long for total submersion, an overdose. Jack's world had been neatly sewn up, he could control his wins and losses. Logan -- he could not control.

The shower stopped. Mike reappeared with a towel fastened around his hips, splashing water across Jack's floor. Wondering if Mike would say anything but not waiting to find out, Jack headed for the bathroom, almost desperate to douse himself in cold water.

He stayed in the bathroom long enough to give Mike time to dress and depart. It wasn't an impossible situation -- a few weeks of avoiding each other -- but they were big boys now, they could handle it. He just didn't want to face Mike now, didn't want to discuss anything. He wanted to go to sleep, with the remembrance of that perfect fuck still aching within him.

A half hour later he returned to the bedroom and was greeted by the unexpected sight of Mike Logan settled in his bed, sheet draped over his legs, eyes closed. McCoy stood over him, irritated that he couldn't escape his fears tonight, he had to face them -- he had to sleep with them. But Logan's peaceful expression softened him, lulled him; he wanted to be so untroubled, wanted to know that peace. Besides, he was too weary to wake Mike up and kick him out. So he climbed into bed and switched off the light. Mike rolled over, lost in sleep. Jack closed his eyes, thinking how surreal the situation was. He was just dozing off when something woke him. He smiled. Logan snored. Loudly.

\-----

A dreamless slumber, which seemed appropriate after a night which had never seemed real. McCoy opened his eyes, squinting in the grey morning light, read the clock and shut his eyes again. Much too early to even consider getting up.

The warm, powerful body next to him moved in sleep. Something comforting about the warmth, something reassuring about having this tough, sexy man in bed with him. So unlike the others he'd known, superficial, jaded, deceitful. Then he reminded himself this was Logan. Logan, who hated lawyers. Logan, who had nearly lost his badge because of Jack. Unpredictable and certainly not monogamous Logan.

The breath caught in Jack's throat. Monogamy. Was that really what he'd been looking for? A relationship? Hadn't he had enough of those to last a lifetime? Ridiculous, Jack told himself. No way he wanted an involvement, and even if he did, no way he wanted it with Logan, who'd be nothing but headaches and heartaches. Besides, no way this would be anything more than a one-night stand to Logan.

Mike stirred, rolling onto his side, entangling his legs in the sheet. He draped an arm over Jack, started tracing designs on Jack's belly. Jack felt him draw nearer, plant a long kiss on his shoulder. Mike embraced him, rocking him, mouth searching over his neck, finding his ear. Hungry, affectionate. Jack broke from his embrace and sat up, slumped against the headboard. Mike paused, ran his palm up Jack's leg.

"Do I get breakfast?" he asked.

McCoy wavered between laughing and punching him. He settled for a sharp, icy glare and asked, "Why are you still here? Door's that way, in case you forgot."

Mike's hand dropped. He seemed surprised. "You're asking me to go?"

"I'm saying I don't know why you stayed. You got what you came for, didn't you?"

Mike moved back, rested his head against the headboard, frowning. He ran a hand over his face and yawned. "We both got what we came for, wouldn't you say?" he said, voice crisp. "Or at least we can pretend we did."

"What do you mean by that?" McCoy demanded, annoyed, and troubled, by this whole conversation.

"I don't know, you tell me," Logan answered, raising his voice. "You're the one keeping his distance. You're the one invited me here, wanted to kick me out before the sheets dried. That really what you wanted, Jack? A quick screw to keep the chill out?"

McCoy felt like he was staring into a black pit. Mike's recrimination stung because it had the ring of truth. He shook his head, bewildered that Mike could be so perceptive -- or was it just another game?

"Oh, and you're saying you wanted something more than another notch on your bedframe?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Jack said nothing, stared into space, silently cursed himself. A few seconds later, Mike said quietly, "You never for a moment thought I could be sincere, did you? Never thought you might really turn me on, never thought I might be here for some reason besides perverse curiosity. And I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart."

"What was I supposed to think? Given what I knew about you..." Jack trailed off as Mike sat up, starting to get out of bed. "Damn it, I still don't know what more you want from me. One minute you're a cauldron of emotion, ready to boil over, explode. The next you're an ice prince. Cold. Locked up tight."

Mike turned to look at him, eyes soft and tired. "What I want? A little honesty would be nice. A chance to get to know an infuriating and extremely attractive man, have a little fun, take it from there," he said, voice low but brittle. "Tell me, do all your affairs have to be carved in stone up front? Don't you ever do things on the spur of the moment? Take chances?"

McCoy, taken aback by his candor, hesitated before replying. A smile formed on his lips. "Yes, sometimes I do. I took a chance last night."

Logan's eyes pierced into him. "And regretted it."

"No," Jack told him firmly. "I don't regret it."

Mike said nothing, staring at him. Jack wanted to reach out to him, wanted to kiss those full, perfect lips and say something ridiculous like 'let's make love all day.' Instead he let the moment pass, and Mike got up and dressed. McCoy watched, then dragged himself from the bed and threw on some underwear and jeans.

Downstairs, Mike refused toast but accepted the coffee and drank it standing, looking outside into the backyard. Jack drank his cup at the table, replaying events, speculating on changed outcomes, missed opportunities, miscalculations. Last night he had thought they knew each other too well, that they were too much alike. Today, he could only see their differences, only see how far apart they were.

At the door, Logan paused and on impulse Jack kissed his cheek, pressing his forehead to Mike's temple.

"I'm sorry," he said, but Logan shrugged it off.

"Don't worry about it." He put his hand on the doorknob, tapped it restlessly. "I'll see you around, counselor," he said, opening the door and stepping outside. As McCoy started to close the door, Mike looked back over his shoulder, smirking. "You know where to find me," he said drily and walked off, hands buried deep in coat pockets.

Jack watched him go, slowly shut the door. Felt again how unsatisfactorily the encounter had ended. He had underestimated Logan. He regretted that, imagining how things might have turned out if he'd only believed in Logan's sincerity earlier. He had underestimated himself, underestimated the intensity of his desires, the depths of his longings, overestimated the limits of his self-control.

He liked to win.

Yet he felt like he had gambled nothing, and lost everything.

(the end)


End file.
